The Legend of Zelda: The Shizen Chronicles
by Hsumi
Summary: He never thought himself too important, but if it wasn't for him, nothing would exist. Nothing but Majora. Time began because of him, and time has all but forgotten him. Him and his magic drum. This is the story of Shizen.


((A/N: Shizen is NOT an OC. He was in the Majora's Mask official manga, and is therefor a character within the story. However, he wasn't given a name in the manga, so technically, the name belongs to me, but not the character.))

How long had it been? He had asked himself that very question many times. How long had it been since what, he could remember clearly. Long ago, he had sealed Majora's power within a mask carved from his own remains. Just how long ago, he couldn't remember. Why had he been granted this long life? Perhaps it was Majora's last curse. He made him live for several thousands of years, out of spite, perhaps. Or maybe his definition of a gift. Either way, no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember his name, or how long it had been. He was the last of his race, and thus hid his ears, but people still stared. He was an abomination in their world. He was the last human, Majora's undoer, and his savior.

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Chapter One: Strange Rumors

A tall, blonde man wearing a cloth mantle approached the walls of Clock Town. On the band around his head lay a long, silver feather. Over his shoulder was a sack that contained something very large, but apparently lightweight. Underneath his mantle was an armor breastplate.

"Well, that's something you don't see every day…" He commented, his azure eyes drawn to a viscious-looking moon above the city.

"Welcome to Clock Town! You must be a tourist here for the festival of time." Said a guard as the man entered the town. He ignored the guard and kept walking.

The town had a very festive atmosphere, and all the people seemed happy. However, a few stopped and stared at him. It might have been his strange clothing, or it might have been the fact that he was a good foot taller than most of the townspeople. Either way, he tried to ignore the curious stares he received and continued walking. When he came to a square near an inn called 'The Stock Pot Inn,' he stopped walking. He took the sack from his shoulder and placed it on the ground. A few curious onlookers watched him as he undid the knot on the bag and produced a drum.

It was a beautiful instrument lined with gold, and an almost magical aura surrounded it. He tapped the surface, and all those nearby immediately listened, even though it was only one beat. He began to tap out a rhythm on the drum, and everyone stopped what they were doing to listen. It was an unusual beat, and even though only a drum was present, all the listeners heard pipes and strings accompanying the beat. The melody was ancient and exotic, and people began to dance to the strange music, some even joined in with instruments of their own, adding to the volume of the magical tune. The man closed his eyes and concentrated on the drum, sending pure magic through his arms and into the drumbeats, captivating all those nearby. The music stopped suddenly on one final beat, and with it the magic. The man opened his eyes to see that he had gathered quite a crowd.

"I… take it you liked the music?" He asked sheepishly. Applause answered his question adequately enough. One lady stepped forward out of the crowd and addressed him. She had short, red hair and was rather cute.

"Excuse me, sir, we still have a room available at the inn, would you please stay and play at the festival?" she asked kindly. This was the response he was looking for.

"Of course! I'll play again tonight if you like. You can all dance until dawn if you want. After all, this is your chance to make your own time move." He replied with a smile. The last comment was met with confused stares, but he smiled and waved it off. "Old saying from my hometown. Just means that it's time to have fun." The crowd seemed satisfied with this answer. He looked back at the lady who had addressed him before. "Excuse me, miss…"

"Anju." She finished for him.

"Ah, yes, Anju. May I see where I'll be staying?" he asked.

"Of course. And what may we call you?"

"Just call me Shizen." He smiled

Anju led him to 'The Stock Pot Inn' and showed him to an empty room.

"It's not much, but I hope it's to your standards." Anju said, giving him a room key. "The festival is in three days. Can you stay that long?" She asked with a hint of worry in her voice. Shizen nodded and put his stuff down. Anju closed the door, and he collapsed onto the bed. It felt good to be steeping in a bed again, and he had used a little too much energy in that last performance. He laughed a little at this. Playing for barely an hour, and here he was, getting tired. Several thousand years ago, he had played for three days and three nights, non-stop without tiring. His audience of one in that performance collapsed and died of exhaustion at the end of that particular dance.

"Majora… where are you?" He asked, fear in his voice.

((A/N: If I get five reviews I'll continue.))


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